


at either end

by octopieces



Category: Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series
Genre: Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Light feels a bit motherly, Platonic Cuddling, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4379990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopieces/pseuds/octopieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one can doubt that Hope has grown into himself, espeically Light. He can sprint as fast if not faster than Vanille. She's seen him cast a Blizzaga that has crippled an Alpha Behemoth in the face of her own newfound magic. She's seen, and felt, his anger - at Snow, at the Fal'Cie, at his fate. Like her, he drained all the places where fear was, forced to fill them with whatever burned most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at either end

There is so much of herself that she sees in him, so much hidden that they've never seen, that she sees, feels, recognizes. 

It hurts like she had never allowed it.

Hope has, maybe not *despite* her predictions, blown her away. He is still small, slender, his face smooth and soft and round with what her mother had called "puppy fat." But he's less clumsy, grown agile. He can sprint as fast if not faster than Vanille. She's seen him cast a Blizzaga that has crippled an Alpha Behemoth in the face of her own newfound magic. She's seen, and felt, his anger - at Snow, at the Fal'Cie, at his fate. Like her, he drained all the places where fear was, forced to fill them with whatever burned most. Rage. Doubt. Determination.

Rarely, though, has she seen him in grief. 

The day has been long. A fight has left a good deal of them wounded, but Fang has managed with Snow's help to slay and skin a gorgonopsid that'll keep them in meat for at least a few days. Hope, Vanille, and Light have all been busy healing themselves, their friends, and it all has admittedly added to the weight of exhaustion now anchoring them down to camp. Lightning had hoped to move on, but by the end of it all, even she had to face the fact that they weren't going anywhere for at least another two days. 

She didn't hear Hope complain once the whole time. His gaze was fixed, if a little glassy, as the green light at his fingertips ease cracked bone and fang marks and burnt skin. He lingers over Snow for a while, his energy waning, exhaustion wearing on him, the ice-hot tingle of his brand making him grit his teeth. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, his voice soft as a mouse creeping from a dusty larder. Snow, his shirt pulled up to expose a nasty slash and some unseen cracked ribs, smiles at him, pats his hand.

"It's okay, kiddo."

"I've got this, promise." He screws up his face and another burst of green light flows from his fingertips - Snow sighs in relief, the pain finally dissipating, only to gasp in alarm as Hope as he staggers, his knees buckling as he crumples to the ground.

"Hey, heeey. Easy does it," Snow says, catching him clumsily before he falls, pulling out the last of his potions and sitting him down. "Drink that. You did good." Hope's smile is small and fragile as he takes it; Lightning watches him gulp down the potion, his gaze glazing over again as he stares into the fire, where Sazh and Fang have hoisted their night's meat. 

They're all more relaxed that night; there's nothing to do, really, not while they rest and heal. Nights like this are becoming less common, as they hack and slash toward their still hazy goal; the only portents are the spikes of new arrows on skin, the formation of a closed, blackened eye in the center, the growing buzz of anxiety and panic in the silences that stretch between them on long hours of long treks with little food and freezing nights, each of them weighing the benefits of setting up camp. They have to hurry. Have to find whatever it is they're looking for, whatever force has pulled them towards this world, towards the end of the one above. 

But tonight, they rest - they have no choice - and it's an unspoken agreement that they all may as well enjoy it.

Sazh and Snow get into a friendly argument over the two different Flans that inhabited Vallis Media the other day, one insisting attack power, the other insisting Firaga was what did them in. Vanille is sitting with her head on Fang's shoulder, who's wrapping another strap of leather around her blade. The chocobo chick is flitting around the fire, chirping as she lands in front of Hope's sneakers, nipping at his shoelaces. He reaches down and gently scoops her up, holding her in his lap and stroking the top of her head with an ungloved hand. She chirps again and flits off, toward the steppe, where, in the gathering pinkish glow of the cloudy sky, a pair of grown chocobos are pecking and grazing. 

"I'll go with her," Hope says, and gets up without another word. It's not unusual for one of them to do so, but Lightning still eyes him as he stands, turns, catching the glitter of his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugged down - his face crumples, just before he heads out of her view completely, and it's as though someone has let their hand melt through her chest and taken a vice-grip of her heart, just below her brand. Vanille looks after him a moment, and her gaze flickers to Light.

She cannot leave him. So she stands, picks up her gunblade and a blanket to wrap around her shoulders, and heads in the same direction. She doesn't need to track him, not really, but she eyes his footprints, the rustle of grass here and there, the impression of the toe of his sneakers - he had run. Run away? Her pulse kicks up - her feet follow. But he's not far.

She can see him from here, just standing there, outlined by the light of the evening, standing in the wake of the giant plumed birds. He's still, his hands hanging limp at his sides, apparently gazing at something on the horizon. The chocobo chick is twittering, amidst the coos of the elders, but she can hear, amongst the soft warbling, his wet breathing, the chest aching chokes of sobs unsuccessfully stifled. 

Lightning is frozen, standing there, her tongue filling up her mouth. He's crying. Hope is crying. And she has no idea what to do.

At any other point of this whole journey, any other point, she would have called him a child, she'd have told him to suck it up, to focus, to find someone else to follow rather than moping, that crumbling was weak. But not now, not after seeing his growth, his guts, his ferocity, his loyalty, his ability to forgive.

There's been something gnawing, growing, spreading in Light when she sees Hope lately. When she watches him healing after a fight, when he's on his own chocobo and out digging. When he's sitting and flipping his eidolith crystal in the air and back down. When he's quiet, withdrawn, or squirming out of Snow's grasp and laughing as they tease each other. It's not romance, she's sure of that. But it's not like looking at Serah, either. Rather, she feels him pulling smiles from her, smiles that no one else sees. In the heat of battle, her heart jumps when she sees him run into action. When she watched him, practically shouting with triumph as Alexander surrendered, something inside her was swelling to the breaking point. And now it's diminishing, cracking, crushed to a powder.

Nothing she can think of to say will ever be enough, she knows it, and she has no idea what to do, she's never felt so helpless in her life. She watches at the tiny chocobo flits from a feathery back to Hope's shoulder, nipping at his hair. Hope sniffs and rubs his unbranded wrist over his eyes, shaking hands scooping her from his shoulder. In that small moment, the ever-soft turn of his head, Light finds her voice, speaks his name.

He stills, caught, and she's not even sure she can read his thoughts, whether he's going to brush her off or run away or shout or give into it. In the end, he turns away, looking down at the downy ball that has curled up in his palm. "Sorry," he says, his voice raw and feather soft. "I'll be back in a bit."

Lightning creeps closer, reaching out and grazing the tips of her fingers on his shoulder, unsure of whether or not he'll shy away. He doesn't move. She's not sure if that's worse.

"Is it…the whole Ragnarok thing?" she asks. It could be so many things. So many things they're all dealing with together, but even then, they are all wrestling their own personal demons.

Hope doesn't answer for a while. If anything, his shoulder seems to accept and sag beneath her touch. It's a long time before he speaks. "What do you think it feels like? Becoming a C'eith?" 

His shoulders are still so narrow, she muses, as her arm comes round them. He's still a boy. She sighs. "I don't know. Probably…a feeling of failure, if you're completely lost," she says. "Sadness. Or…maybe it's more like, I don't know. Losing your mind."

"Do you think it hurts more than dying?"

There it is. Her hands tighten on his shoulders. "Hope -"

"That's not what I mean," he says quickly, now rubbing the heels of his gloved hands over his eyes - she can see the water glistening on them, draws him a little closer as he wipes them angrily on his shorts. "I'm not…I'm not saying I want to die. I just want to know that she…she didn't…" He swallows, and his eyes fill with water again. The minuscule movement in his arms signals his desire to turn away, and a wash of something powerful overcomes Light - she pulls him into her arms, a hug unlike even the one she gave him upon finding him and Snow in Felix Heights. She tucks his head against her shoulder, her lips pressed to his hair, the whole plane of his small, compact body aligned snug with hers. He's still for almost a full five seconds, then his arms are around her waist, and Light has to swallow the thickness in her throat at his deep, shuddering intake of breath, the release that comes with the tears now soaking through her shirt. If there is anything she can empathize with, anything she aches with him in, it's the loss of a parent.

Hope is trembling in her arms, his grief, so stifled or channeled finally allowed breathing room in the wide plains of Pulse, the distance from home, the safety of her embrace. Lightning presses her lips to his temple, wrapping him closer in the blanket. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I wish I could promise it gets easier." 

Her words are cut off by the bigger of the two chocobos crooning and nudging its beak against the side of his head, ruffling his hair and breaking them apart. Hope pulls back a little, eyes red and puffy, and the closest chocobo presses a feathery head to his cheek, nuzzling him. Lightning's arms remain around his shoulders, and his hands upon her waist. Neither of them want to pull away. In the pink glow of sundown, Hope turns his wet face up to hers, and finds her looking down at him with the tenderest expression he's ever seen. Her eyes are those of a friend, but she looks older, and her touch across his face is maternal, wiping away more tears as they well up uncontrollably. And he sees, beyond the bravado, beyond the toughness, her own grief, long since buried.

"What was it like?" he croaks. "For you? When your parents…"

"Terrible," she says, her thumb stroking his cheek. "But I can't imagine it trumping what you've been through. Thought I'd break. But I had to be strong, Serah was hit so hard, I couldn't let her go under. So I sucked it up. Joined the GC. Changed my name. Changed myself. You…you've done so much better than I did, Hope," she says, and there are tears in her eyes, in her voice. "I know you've made her so proud."

He moves back into the hug, his hair tickling her cheek as she gives him a gentle squeeze. "I just miss her," he mumbles. "Just can't believe she's gone. Being on the run, it's easy to be mad about it, to think back to that moment, but…seeing all this. Even just seeing the chocobos, seeing Pulse…knowing I'll never be able to tell her about it. I'll never see her again. I don't know what it'll be like not to have her in the house anymore."

"I know," she says, feeling his heartbeat against her, even through the layers of fabric. "It's hard to comprehend. It's like that for a long time." 

"Does it ever go away?"

A silence, as she runs her fingers through his soft hair. "I'll let you know."

~

Fang and Vanille are asleep in the tent when the two return. Snow, kept up by Sazh's snoring, catches a glimpse of them through the flap of his tent. Hope's eyes are red, his cheeks streaked, but he looks calm. They disappear into the tent without a word, and he and Sazh are left alone.

In the dark, Hope feels Lightning sit down first, her hand closing round his. He follows suit, sinking to his knees and lowering himself to the floor. There's a moment where everything could go awfully pear-shaped and awkward, where they could draw back, but Lightning tugs gently on his hand and he moves right up to her, drawn into her arms. Her hand comes up to tuck his head under her chin, his nose buried in the high collar of her vest. Light makes a soft sound as she feels him do so, like a pup burrowing into its mother. His breath pools warm against her throat and shoulder as he sighs into the fabric around her neck, and that warm, aching feeling has returned, as though Hope has sunk his hand right through her clothes, through the cage of flesh and blood and bone, and taken her heart in his small fist. 

Hope is unaware of this sweeping, rising wave of something cresting inside her as he wraps an arm around her, the other somewhat awkwardly curled up against his chest. He cannot deny the welling of gratitude in him, simultaneously keeping him on the edge of fresh tears and utter relaxation. His heart flutters in his chest like a fledgling bird, and he's sure Light can feel it. It doesn't make him back away, though. He's glad she can feel it, if she can. He doesn't mind. 

Face buried in the curve between her throat and her shoulder, he can smell her. Dirt and sweat, no doubt, and yet there's something else. Not so fragrant like she's rolled in flowers, the way Vanille smells. Not like hide and animal skin and raw, musky adrenaline. That's Fang. There is something so utterly primal about the both of them. They look and feel and react to this world, they were born into the brutality of it, they are brimming with it. 

Lightning was not, and she looks it. She smells, if anything, like a home, lost to the wild. Leather and salt and minerals from the spring she'd soaked her clothes in two days before. And, while he has nothing really to go on, he can feel and tell - she smells like a woman. 

He sighs into her embrace, and he feels her squeeze him infinitesimally closer. He does the same to her, and hears, or more feels, the rumble in her chest - she sounds pleased, or, as much as she can be. Neither of them say anything, not for a long time, even though it takes them until sunrise to fall asleep. 

When Lightning wakes, everyone is outside. She has shifted just a little, more onto her back, and Hope's cheek is still pressed to her shoulder, his arm thrown across her waist. His eyes are open, flick up to her face as she lifts a hand stroke his hair. 

"Sorry," he says. "I've been up for a while. Should have told you." He moves to sit up, rubbing his neck as he comes up to his knees. He doesn't, or can't meet her eyes.

She sits up, sees his arms draw slightly together, as though to hug himself, but her hands are on his before he can move. There's a long silence, as she waits, the patience he's teased out of her soul smoothing his trembling sense of awkwardness. He is so young.

"Thank you," he says, the words creeping out like a mouse from a dusty larder. His small fingers close around hers, the arrows of his brand peeking out from below his gloves. Hers tingles cold on her breast, a simmering reminder of their fate, death at neither end, unless by the fangs of the viper's nest above, the jaws of some beast on these plains, or worse, by the merciful hand of one of their own.

She lets go, takes his face between her palms and presses her lips to his forehead. Snow rattles the tent flap, insisting something about breakfast. Hope stands, but waits for Lightning to meander out with him. He does not cling, but he does not shun her either. 

Halfway through the morning, through Snow's prodding and the thrill of racing over the field on a great yellow-plumed bird, he cracks a smile, and in the afternoon, an actual laugh. But he does not look up at the sky.

And Light thinks that maybe she's had an answer for longer than she thought.


End file.
